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February 17, 2006

A short while ago I read The Penelopiad by Margaret
Atwood, a re-telling of The Odyssey and accompanying Greek myth through
the voices of Penelope, Odysseus’s wife (almost always prefixed by the words “long-suffering”
in literary discussion) and her twelve maids, who are murdered by Odysseus and his
son Telemachus in an act of revenge. I
loved it, even though I was wary going into it, because it just seemed too easy
– like the kind of trick I might try to pull: feminism + the Odyssey (OK, this was the topic of my last performance work). It turns out these really are two great
tastes that taste great together, especially in the hands of Atwood who is
clever enough to suggest that while Penelope may indeed have been
long-suffering, she might not be histories’ most reliable narrator herself.

This was a sharp contrast to my experience
reading recent Vanity Fair and Premiere articles about Lindsay
Lohan, which I was just so pumped up for. You see her in her adorable
movies and she’s got so much fizz, but then you read those interviews and I’m
sorry, but it’s like: who left the ginger ale out overnight again? That’s right Lindsay, BREATHE.